NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (7 page)

As he watched, a small Hispanic-looking man, dressed in civilian clothes, came out the back door of the house and began shaking hands with the men at the table. Brown got a good look at him before tucking his binoculars away in the duffle.

“Link Jefferson is going to love this,” he said as he retrieved his cell phone from his buttoned shirt pocket and dialed the pre-arranged hotline number.

The first shot hit the trunk of the tree about three inches from Brown’s head, the second exploded his cell phone as it passed through the meaty part of his right hand.

Brown clutched his bag with both arms and rolled down hill in the opposite direction from the gunfire. He neither heard nor saw any more shots as he rolled to the bottom of the ridge where he hit the ground running. He reached his car in about two minutes, piled his gear in the front seat and raced up the narrow path to the paved road. Through the trees, he could see a caravan of pickups hurtling down the road in his direction.

He made it to the main highway ahead of them and gave them the slip by executing an escape route he had mapped out the night before.

At the rented trailer house that served as his base of operations, he got out his medical supplies and began working on his hand. The bullet had passed through clean, without breaking any bones, but he knew it would be a while before his shooting hand would be what it needed to be for this assignment.

When he had his hand doctored, he punched a number on the speed dial of his spare cell phone and called his contact at the FBI.

When the contact answered, he said: “This is Brown. Tell the general that something big is getting ready to happen in west Tennessee.”

RALPH, LEON’S CHAUFFEUR
and general flunky drove all night for the third time in a month to make a delivery to Stanley Nussbaum in Charlotte, North Carolina. As the sun came up, he could see the Bank of America tower, all sixty stories of it, its top floors shrouded in the mist of morning, as it dominated the skyline of one of the fastest growing financial centers in the United States. The tower was high on Homeland Security’s list of possible terrorist targets.

He parked his limo and entered the lobby. As he passed through security, stoic, humorless, guards fingerprinted and searched him. He took the elevator to the fifty-fifth floor. When he stepped off, he found himself at the nerve center of what J. Franklin Westmoreland had described to Leon Martinez as a “small press” owned by his friend, Stanley Nussbaum. Since Leon had never made the promised trip to deliver Westmoreland’s manuscript, he had no clue about the extent of Nussbaum’s publishing empire. Ralph saw no need to report anything to Leon except that he had accomplished his mission.

He walked to the receptionist’s desk and waited for her to acknowledge him.

“Ralph, you’re becoming a regular around here,” she said with a smile.

“The boss says this is the last of it,” he said as he waved a sheaf of papers in the air. “That suits me just fine. It’s a helluva drive over here from Houston. You’re the only thing that makes it worth my while.”

The receptionist blushed at his last comment.

“Some things are worth a little trouble,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. Nussbaum you’re here with a package.”

“Thanks, Betty,” he said.

He took a seat in the spacious waiting area where he could get a good view of the country side. He could see the NASCAR track in the distance and wondered what it would take to get Betty to go to a race with him.

Before he could broach the subject with her, she announced, “He’s ready to see you, Ralph.”

He nodded at her on his way into Nussbaum’s office, a place where very few, including Nussbaum employees, ever gained entrance.

When he entered the office, Nussbaum rose from his chair behind his desk and came over to shake his hand.

“What you got for me today, Ralph?” he asked as Ralph handed him the stack of papers.

“This is supposed to be the last chapters of Frank’s book, Mr. Nussbaum.”

Nussbaum flipped through the pages of the manuscript with his thumb like a poker player shuffling the deck in a high-stakes game. He counted the pages, pursed his lips and whistled a “whew.” From the table behind his desk, he took a stack of papers twice the size of the one Ralph had just delivered. He combined the new pages and stepped back to look at the size of it.

“By the time my editors get through with the manuscript, it will be just right,” Nussbaum said. “Frank is going to be very pleased with the finished product. You’re looking at a book that will make history, Ralph. It’s the sort of thing that will become required reading in every school and college in the country. People all over the world will have a copy of it on their night stands next to the Holy Bible.”

“If you say so, Mr. Nussbaum,” Ralph said, failing to see what the big deal was, but not wanting Nussbaum to know how he felt.

“When are you headed back?” Nussbaum asked.

“I’ve been up for awhile, so I think I’ll check into a hotel and get a little sleep before I do the turn around. I’ll probably get on the road about six this evening. I don’t mind driving at night,” Ralph said.

“Okay. Before you leave town, drop back by here. I want to send Westmoreland a note. You can get it to him, can’t you?”

“Leon is the only person who can get into see him, Mr. Nussbaum. But, I will certainly see that Mr. Martinez has your letter in his hand early tomorrow.”

Nussbaum wrinkled his brow at this news and thought for a minute.

“In that case, I think I will make other arrangements. I was thinking about something more confidential. I don’t like too many hands touching those sorts of communications. I trust you, Ralph. I don’t know Leon, if you catch my drift.”

“I understand, Mr. Nussbaum. There is a lot going on these days.”

“You’re a very perceptive person, Ralph. Are you interested in making a little extra money?” Nussbaum asked him, feeling him out.

“I’ve never turned down the chance to make an honest buck,” Ralph said.

“Well, this may stretch the boundaries of honesty, but it’s not illegal,” Nussbaum said.

“I’m all ears,” Ralph said. And for the first time since Ralph had met him, Nussbaum motioned for him to take a seat in one of the big chairs in front of his desk.

THE BRAIN TRUST
met weekly to develop a plan for the conventions. It was invitation only. Selected members of Congress hashed out the details for what would happen depending on various scenarios.

“What about federal funds?” Congressman Farragut asked. “The seceding states need to be able to operate for several months while things sort themselves out,” he said.

“No one will be in a position to lock us down,” Leon said. “Our financial people have a plan already in place. After the first month or so, things will fall into place just as if nothing ever happened.”

“What about troops?” a Senator from one of the largest states asked.

“If we have the minds and hearts of our constituents, they will follow us,” Martinez replied. “Our soldiers aren’t going to find themselves fighting against God. The key is to make this a war of good versus evil, not a political struggle. Everyone is waiting for an opportunity to bring in the kingdom.”

“What’s this kingdom supposed to look like?” asked Arceneau Thibodeaux, the man who hosted the gathering in New Orleans.

“It’s going to look like heaven on earth,” Martinez countered. “The Ten Commandments will be the law of the land. Dissent from our philosophy will be blasphemy punishable in the courts of New Israel.”

“There has to be a constitution and criminal code in place or no one will know how to act,” the New Orleans Representative said trying to put a practical spin on the discussion.

“We’ll put someone like you in charge of our national courts in every state,” Martinez said. “That should quell any misgivings anyone might have,” playing to the Congressman’s pride.

“If we make the law subject to the whims of a strong man in every state, we will have no way to ensure certainty. What I think is right or legal, may be something someone else would condemn,” the Representative said.

“We all know the difference between right and wrong, Congressman. God has written it on our hearts,” Leon said. “With His guidance, we will forge a whole new way of meting out justice and controlling those who have not yet come to God’s grace. The world has waited for this moment for over two thousand years. It will be as if the Second Coming has occurred and Jesus was on the throne.”

“Until he actually returns, who will be on our throne?” the Senator asked.

“J. Franklin Westmoreland, of course,” Leon said. “Or his appointed representative.”

Everyone in the room knew who that representative would be if the time came, and they also knew that they dare not ask any questions about what would happen if Westmoreland and Martinez disagreed.

After the meeting, several members of the group caucused in private.

“We must have checks and balances in place,” one of them said.

“You’re thinking like someone from the old regime,” Farragut said. “We are talking about a new era, one in which all things have become new. So long as our leaders follow the paths of God, we have nothing to fear.”

“That’s what worries me,” Congressman Thibodeaux said.

BASS WHITFIELD THOUGHT
about Easter eggs as he looked at the White House lawn while a moonless night enveloped it. He thought about the promise the former First Lady brought to the event, a week before her husband’s assassination, how she glowed with health and youthful enthusiasm as she watched kids having fun, finding treasures. And he thought about his first lady, Margaret, how she had been his partner through thick and thin, always ready for a challenge or a fight if need be.

And he remembered the voracious melanoma that took her in a rush three years before she would have walked the halls of the White House.

Try as they might, they were never able to have children, so she made each child she met her own. She volunteered for everything, coached soccer and softball, put together the annual Christmas crèche at the local Baptist church, raised money for every worthy cause under the sun. CEOs would hide their check books when they saw her coming. But they couldn’t resist her.

“You would have been the greatest First Lady ever, Maggie,” he said as if she were still at his side.

Before he stepped inside, he raised his gaze to the Washington Monument, now bathed in artificial light as it towered over the capital. He wondered how in the hell he came to stand at that spot at this time in history.

He turned his back on the splendor of monuments and went to his desk in the Oval Office where he began reading briefings about the events of the day just passed and the one to come. The routine of hard work, a retreat from a life without Maggie, was his firmest foothold against a world that otherwise would have driven him mad.

At the bell that afternoon, the Dow Jones average hit a five year low. In ten days, several states would hold secession conventions. In Detroit, half the city was burned-out rubble under martial law, while a few miles away in Dearborn Hills, auto executives were holed up in their palatial mansions. They hired private armies to guard their stashes of gold, cash, and priceless works of art. In an unheard of turn of events, they had cancelled the annual golf tournament at the country club, saying they did not want to appear insensitive at this time of great trouble.

“They’re scared shitless,” Bass said with contempt.

Deep into the night, he poured over reports, until about one o’clock. He hung his face in his hands, trying to rid his mind of all the country’s problems. He picked up the phone and dialed Ert Roberts. It rang three times before the attorney answered. He sounded tired, but not asleep.

“You think you could sneak out of the house for few minutes? I need someone to bounce a few things off of,” Bass said to Ert.

“I’m not sure how good my company will be, Mr. President. But I think Beth might let me out for a little while,” Ert said.

“I’ll have a car there in a few minutes,” Bass said.

While he waited on Ert to arrive, Whitfield stacked the reports to the side and dusted off an old Bible that always lay on the desk in the Oval Office. He wondered how many of his predecessors ever opened it.

“It’s been a while, old friend,” he said to the book.

He turned to a few familiar passages. Psalms 23 made him think of Texas cow pastures where he and his brothers used to pelt each other with cow paddies while they were supposed to be slopping hogs.

“Where is that red print?” he asked as he flipped towards the back of the book, looking for the words of Jesus. His finger fell on those enigmatic sayings from the Sermon on the Mount now called the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” He turned the pages, scouring here and there, absorbed until Nate buzzed him on the intercom.

“Mr. President. I have Mr. Roberts here to see you.”

“Send him in, Nate. Thanks for pulling the late shift.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Nate said. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”

When Ert entered, his eyes fell immediately on the Bible that Bass had in front of him. Without saying anything, he walked to the edge of the desk and leaned over to see what the President was reading.

“We can’t let something like this get out. Your critics might think you have lost your mind. It’s okay if they read that book, but they don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands,” he said.

“Comments like that make me proud I have you on my team,” the President said. “I can’t out-religion my adversaries, but that doesn’t mean I am unconcerned about matters of ultimate truth.”

“I know you have been processing a lot of things, Mr. President,” Ert said.

“The time is soon coming when I will have to decide the appropriate use of force necessary to preserve the union, Ert. I want my mind to be clear about that course of action and the moral underpinnings of it when the time comes.”